Mattimeo (Redwall) Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Map

  Prologue

  Book One: Slagar the Cruel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Book Two: General Ironbeak

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Book Three: Malkariss

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  About the Author

  Also by Brian Jacques

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Slagar the Fox wants revenge and is determined to wreak destruction upon Redwall Abbey and bring death to the mighty mouse-warrior, Matthias. Will Slagar be able to overcome the legendary Redwall sword and carry out his cunning and cowardly plan to kidnap Matthias’s son, the young Mattimeo . . .?

  BRIAN

  JACQUES

  A TALE OF REDWALL

  MATTIMEO

  Illustrated by Gary Chalk

  High noontide sun beat down on Orlando the Axe.

  The mighty badger strode the far reaches of the western plains, blind to the beauty of the flower-carpeted grassland which had turned green to gold.

  Orlando the Axe was following the fox.

  The badger wiped a huge dusty paw across his eyes. Sun glinted off the massive double-headed battle-axe slung over his shoulder. His home lay plundered behind him; there was nothing left there except desolation and loneliness.

  Orlando the Axe was following the fox.

  Two sunrises ago he had passed the strange fox and his band. They had given him a wide berth as he trudged to the foothills of the mountains, seeking food and the small rock plants which his little daughter Auma loved so much. Orlando feared no living creature. He had passed by the fox, not thinking that he had left a clear trail back to his den. The following morning he had returned home, laden with food and rock flowers. Auma was gone, his home was smashed and broken.

  Orlando the Axe was following the fox.

  Three winters ago his wife Brockrose had died, leaving him to rear their little badger cub. Auma was the most precious thing in Orlando’s life. He taught her of the seasons, the plains and the mountains. Now he had turned his back on those same mountains and plains with only one thing in his mind: to find his daughter and the creature who had taken her.

  Orlando the Axe was following the fox.

  Striding the wide spaces, the badger let a fearsome rumble start to build deep within his cavernous chest, a terrible sound that grew into a howling roar of pent-up rage and anger. It rebounded to the mountains across the sunlit plain as he shook the battle-axe aloft with one paw, his eyes narrowed to red bloodshot slits which changed the whole world crimson in front of him.

  Orlando the Axe was following the fox!

  BOOK ONE

  Slagar the Cruel

  1

  FROM THE DIARY of John Churchmouse, historian and recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country.

  We are close to the longest day of this season, the Summer of the Golden Plain. Today I took up my ledger and quill to write. It was cool and dim in the quiet of my little study indoors. With a restless spirit I sat, quill in paw, listening to the merry din outside in the sunlit cloisters of our Abbey. I could no longer stand the solitude, that happy sound of revelry drew me outside, yet there was still my recorder’s duties to catch up with. Taking ledger and quill, I went out, up the stairs to the top of the outer wall, directly over the Warrior’s Cottage, which is the gatehouse at the threshold of Redwall Abbey.

  What a glorious day! The sky, painted special blue for the summer, had not a cloud or shadow anywhere, the hot eye of the sun caused bees to drone lazily, while grasshoppers chirruped and sawed endlessly. Out to the west, the great plains stretched away, shimmering and dancing with heat waves to the distant horizon, a breathtaking carpet of kingcup and dandelion mingled with cowslip; never had we ever seen so many yellow blossoms. Abbot Mordalfus named it the Summer of the Golden Plain. What a wise choice. I could see him ambling round the corner by the bell tower, his habit sleeves rolled well up, panting as he helped young woodlanders to carry out forms for seating at the great feast, our eighth season of peace and plenty since the wars.

  Otters swam lazily in the Abbey pond, culling edible water plants (but mostly gambolling and playing. You know what otters are like). Small hedgehogs and moles were around the back at the east side orchard. I could hear them singing as they gathered ripening berries or collected early damsons, pears, plums and apples, which the squirrels threw down to them from the high branches. Pretty little mousemaids and baby voles tittered and giggled whilst choosing table flowers, some making bright posies which they wore as hats. Frequently a sparrow would thrum past my head, carrying some morsel it had found or caught (though I cannot imagine any creature but a bird eating some of the questionable items a sparrow might find). The Foremole and his crew would arrive shortly to dig a baking pit. Meanwhile, the bustle and life of Redwall carried on below me, framed at the back by our beloved old Mossflower Woods. High, green and serene, with hardly a breeze to stir the mighty fastness of leafy boughs, oak, ash, elm, beech, yew, sycamore, hornbeam, fir and willow, mingled pale, dusty, dark and light green hues, the varied leaf shapes blending to shelter and frame the north and east sides of our walls.

  Only two days to the annual festivities. I begin to feel like a giddy young woodlander again! However, being historian and recorder, I cannot in all dignity tuck up the folds of my habit and leap down among the merrymakers. I will finish my writings as quickly as possible then, who knows, maybe I’ll stroll down to join some of the elders in the cellar. I know they will be sampling the October ale and blackcurrant wine set by from other seasons, just to make sure it has kept its taste and temperature correctly, especially the elderberry wine of last autumn’s pressing. You understand, of course, that I am doing this merely to help out old friends.

  John Churchmouse (Recorder of Redwall Abbey, formerly of Saint Ninian’s)

  2

  AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT SLANTED through the gaps in the ruined walls and roof of Saint Ninian’s old church, highlighting the desolation of weed and thistle growing around broken, rotted pews. A small cloud of midges dispersed from dizzy circling as Slagar brushed by them. The fox peered through a broken door timber at the winding path of dusty brown which meandered aimlessly southward to meet the woodland fringe on the eastern edge.

  Slagar watched silently, his ragged breath
sucking in and out at the purple-red diamond-patterned skull mask which covered his entire head. When he spoke, it was a hoarse, rasping sound, as if he had received a terrible throat injury at some time.

  ‘Here they come. Get that side door open, quick!’

  A long coloured cart with rainbow-hued covering was pulled into the church by a dozen or so wretched creatures chained to the wagon shaft. A stoat sat on the driver’s platform. He slashed at the haulers savagely with a long thin willow withe.

  ‘Gee up, put yer backs into it, me beauties!’

  The cart was followed by a rabble of ill-assorted vermin: stoats, ferrets and weasels, garbed the same as their comrades who were already waiting with Slagar. They wore broad cloth sashes stuffed with a motley assortment of rusty daggers, spikes or knives. Some carried spears and curious-looking single-bladed axes. Slagar the Cruel hurried them along.

  ‘Come on, shift your hides, get that door back in place quick!’

  The driver jumped down from the cart.

  ‘They’re all here, Slagar,’ he reported, ‘’cept fer that otter. He wasn’t strong enough to carry on, so we finished ’im off an’ chucked his carcass in the ditch, then covered it with ferns. The ants an’ insects’ll do the rest.’

  The hooded fox gave a bad-tempered snort. ‘So long as you weren’t spotted by any creature. News travels fast in Mossflower. We’ve got to stay hidden now until Vitch gets back.’

  The twelve captives chained to the wagon shaft, mice, squirrels, voles, a couple of small hedgehogs and a young female badger, were in an emaciated condition.

  One of them, a squirrel only a few seasons old, moaned piteously. ‘Water, please give me water.’

  The stoat who had been acting as driver swung his willow cane viciously at the unfortunate squirrel.

  ‘Water? I’ll give you water, you little toad. How about a taste of cane, eh? Take that!’

  Slagar stepped on the end of the cane, preventing the stoat swinging it further. ‘Halftail, you idiot, what d’you want, slaves to sell or a load of dead flesh? Use your brain, stoat. Give the beast a drink. Here, Scringe, give ’em all a drink and some roots or leaves to eat, otherwise they’ll be fit for nothing.’

  The ferret called Scringe leapt to do Slagar’s bidding.

  Halftail tugged at the willow cane to free it from Slagar’s paw. The hooded fox held down harder so the stoat could not budge it.

  ‘Now then, Halftail, me bucko, I think you’re getting a bit deaf lately. I thought I told you to keep inside the woods with that cart?’

  Halftail let go of the cane. ‘Aye, and so I did, wherever possible,’ he said indignantly. ‘But have you tried hauling a cart and twelve slaves through that forest out there?’

  Slagar the Cruel picked up the willow cane, the hood coming tight about his jaws with a sharp intake of breath. ‘You forget yourself, stoat. I don’t have to try hauling carts, I’m the boss around here. When I looked up that path a short time ago, I saw you coming up the centre of the road as if you hadn’t a care in the world, bold as brass in broad daylight. Do you realize that a sentry could have seen your dust from the top of Redwall Abbey?’

  Halftail failed to recognize the danger signals. ‘Yah, what’s the difference,’ he shrugged. ‘They never saw anything.’

  Slagar swung the cane furiously and Halftail screamed in agony. He huddled down against the side of the cart, unable to avoid the rain of stinging cuts showering on his head, shoulders and back.

  ‘I’ll tell you the difference, slimebrain. The difference is that you don’t talk back to me. I’m the leader. You’ll learn that or I’ll flay your hide to dollrags!’ Slagar’s voice grated harshly with each slash of the whipping willow.

  ‘Whaaah mercy, ooh owow! Please stop! No more, Chief!’

  Slagar snapped the cane and threw it scornfully at the stoat’s heavily welted head.

  ‘Ha, your hearing seems a little better now. Cut yourself another switch. That one’s worn out.’

  The masked fox whirled upon his band of slavers. They sat in cowed silence. The silken hood stretched around his face as he leaned forward.

  ‘That goes for all of you. If anyone ruins my plan, that creature will wish he’d taken his life swiftly with his own paw, by the time I’m through with him. Understand?’

  There was a murmured growl of assent.

  Slagar climbed up into a ruined window frame. He sat gazing in the direction of Redwall Abbey.

  ‘Scringe, bring me some decent food and a flask of wine from the cart,’ he commanded.

  The servile ferret ran to obey his master.

  ‘Threedaws, station yourself outside at twilight. Keep an eye peeled for Vitch coming back.’

  The weasel saluted. ‘Righto, Chief.’

  The afternoon wore on, peaceful and golden. Now and then a small dust devil swirled on the path with the summer heat.

  Slagar ran a paw tenderly over the silk harlequin-patterned hood, smiling beneath it as a plan of revenge against Redwall revolved slowly in his twisted mind.

  Vengeance had kept him going for a long time now. Sometimes he actually savoured the burning lances of pain that coursed through his face, knowing the day was approaching when he would pay back those he considered responsible for his injuries.

  A beetle trundled out of the pitted, rotten woodwork of the window frame. Slagar the Cruel pierced it neatly with a single daw, watching the insect writhe in its death throes. ‘Redwall, heeheeheehee!’ The fox’s laughter sent shudders through every creature present.

  3

  ‘MATTIMEO, MATTIMEO!’

  Cornflower wrung her paws distractedly. She took one last look around Cavern Hole before climbing the stairs to Great Hall. It was quiet and cool in the Abbey’s largest room. Shafts of sunlight, multi-coloured from the stained-glass windows, lanced downwards, etching small pools of rainbow-hued light on the ancient stone floor.

  The mouse wandered outside, murmuring beneath her breath as she bustled along, ‘Where has the little snip gone this time, I wonder? Oh, Matti, you’ll have me grey before my time.’

  John Churchmouse was climbing rather stiffly down from the west wall stairs with his book and quill. He almost bumped into Cornflower as she crossed the grounds.

  ‘Afternoon, ma’am. My, my, you look busy.’

  Cornflower sat upon the bottom step and heaved a huge sigh. She fanned her whiskers with her paw. ‘Busy isn’t the word for it, Mr Churchmouse. I’ve spent the last hour looking for that son of mine. You haven’t seen him, by any chance?’

  The kindly recorder patted Cornflower’s paw. ‘There, there, don’t you worry your head, ma’am. If your little Matti is anywhere, he’ll be with my Tim and Tess. Young rips, they were supposed to be helping Brother Rufus to write out place names for the table. Ha, there he is now. Hi, Rufus, seen anything of Tim, Tess or young Matti lately?’

  Brother Rufus strode across, shaking his head. He waggled a scroll of birchbark parchment at them both.

  ‘Ruined!’ he exclaimed. ‘Just look at this list they’re supposed to have written. I can’t possibly use any of this for place settings. Look, Abbot Mordalfus, spelt with one “b”. Basil Stag Hare, you’d think that was simple enough. Oh no, they’ve spelt Basil “Bazzerl” and put an “e” on the end of Stag!’

  John Churchmouse pulled forth a kerchief. He blew his snout loudly to disguise the laughter that was shaking him. ‘Hmm, yes, ahaha. ’Scuse me, well, that wouldn’t have been my Tess, you know. She’s quite good at the spelling.’

  Brother Rufus rolled the parchment tightly. ‘It’s that little Mattimeo, he’s the ringleader. I know you may not like that, Cornflower marm, but it’s the truth!’ His voice was shrill with frustration.

  Cornflower nodded her head sadly. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I must agree with you, Brother Rufus. Matti is becoming a real problem. I daren’t tell his father half the things he gets up to.’

  John Churchmouse peered sympathetically over the top of his square eyeglasses. ‘Ma
ybe it’d be better to do so if you’ll excuse me for saying, but young Matti will have to start growing up sometime if he ever hopes to become the Warrior of Redwall like his father Matthias. Mattimeo will have to start behaving responsibly instead of going about like a spoilt brat, if you’ll pardon the expression, ma’am.’

  Cornflower stood up. ‘I know exactly what you mean, Mr Churchmouse, but we may be judging Matti a little unfairly. After all, he does have quite a lot to live up to, being the son of Redwall’s Warrior. Besides, practically every woodlander within our walls has spoiled him since the day he was born.’

  Both John and Rufus nodded their heads in agreement.

  The awkward silence which followed was immediately broken by a band of small creatures headed by a young mole who waved his digging claws wildly.

  ‘Cumm yurr quickly, gennelmice, ’asten ee. Li’l Matti be a-slayin’ Vitch. Do ’urry!’

  Even though the little creature was speaking in the quaint and complicated molespeech, they understood the urgency of his message.

  ‘Where, where?’ they cried. ‘Take us there quickly!’

  The group dashed around the south Abbey gable, taking the shortcut to the east grounds.

  Cornflower picked up her skirts, narrowly avoiding collision with a baby hedgehog. Brother Rufus was out in front.

  Jess Squirrel was first on the scene. She had been up an apple tree in the orchard with her son Sam when they heard the screams. Travelling from bough to bough, swift as a third in flight, Jess dropped to the ground and set about trying to separate the two creatures locked together on the grass. They rolled, kicked, spat and bit furiously. Sam dropped down to his mother’s aid. They grabbed one each and held them apart. As they did, the crowd arrived.